


The Bones of Buried Children, and Guilt Dug Even Deeper.

by AthenaNuu



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Death, Duty, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Seven Souls, Undertale Pacifist Route, Undertale Saves and Resets, Undertale Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-08 17:36:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11086578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AthenaNuu/pseuds/AthenaNuu
Summary: With this Soul, we will be free.Yet the guilt will weave a necklace of children’s bones and lost innocence, tightening around your neck like a noose.Your guilt is weighing you down, old man, and it will only bury you further beneath the earth.You will fall, suffocating, with dirt in your lungs,or live, with more blood on your hands.~A short piece focusing on Asgore's guilt, his boss battle with Frisk, and the suffering and horror that went into obtaining the Fallen Humans' Souls.





	The Bones of Buried Children, and Guilt Dug Even Deeper.

 

The strand was woven of the first: blue like the glow of a Wishing Star and a body that was just as fragile. You were young, back then, full of acid and fuelled by caustic hatred. You could barely feel it as you distracted yourself with grand plans and vile ideals. It was merely a feather's touch across the nape of your neck, and you internally promised that you would only tend to your wounds when your people could see the sky.

 

The clasp was wrought from the metal of second, with a heart of orange so firey that you could barely feel the nudges of guilt upon the edges of your conscience for the anger that set you ablaze. The heat was no more than a candle flame licking across your chest.

 

The charms were won from a hard fought third battle, and the prized amethyst stones hung softly against your neck. You were in your prime, but the lingering guilt rose like a tide pulled along by a moon that you could not see, and you could do nothing but tread water. Your collection was growing, weighing you down; your body threatened to sink, if not for your duty to your people that kept you afloat.

 

The beads were from the fourth, and far more difficult to coax onto the point of your spear, but they were so trusting that they did it anyway. They were jade and peridot and gaspeite, and you began gasping under the weight of the bloodstones at your throat. You would never forgive yourself, and your dreams turned into nightmares of stiff, bloodless corpses and pale, empty Souls.

 

Lead weights were made from the fifth. You struck them down with a fury so violent that the clouds of dust marring their skin plumed in the air and threatened to choke you. They were a pale and cracked citrine, an oxidised and rusted metal shard, and a sliver of diamond scarred by a vein of rotting grey ore. You wished to mourn, but sullied guilt tempered the pity and sorrow in your heart.

 

The ornate details of the sixth were carved in with a heavy hand as they handed across their own Soul. Without hesitation they offered up a treasure so deep in hue that it shone like powdered sapphire and onyx and lapis lazuli. It was a gift, yet you paid the price in blood diamonds, and anguish that set your Soul to a stone as cold and crushing and unyielding as the mountain above you.

 

The last should have polished the metals and gems into a proud, glittering piece of jewellery, yet it twisted the necklace like a tourniquet around your throat.

  


They move too readily, jumping and ducking and rolling across the cracked marble floor, as if they know exactly when and where the attacks will land. You suspect hexes and enchantments and spells are behind their speed and agility, for no mere human should move that easily, yet their magical aura is burning like a bonfire with a distinct humanity. They are too young to have such a wildfire for a Soul, and you imagine if they gained even a touch more power than necessary, it would burn through the entire underground until your kingdom is ash and your people are dust. They had no lack of opportunity to enact such violence, for your people are weak and their hope is low, yet the Last Child’s Soul is pure and as bright as a thousand Suns. You blurrily imagine, if only for a second, that they have dust smeared across their face and in the creases of their joints, and an oozing smile that stretches far too wide across their rosy cheeks. You have to forcibly cast away the images that cling to your vision, like the smudged and ghostly pictures left behind after staring at a bright light for far too long.

 

You blink away the stars, grasp your trident tighter, and attack.

 

_With this Soul, we will be free._

_Yet the guilt will weave a necklace_

_of children’s bones and lost innocence,_

_tightening around your neck like a noose._

 

They are too young to be playing this game. Too small. Too fragile. _Weak enough to crush under the heel of your shoe_ but you have much more respect for this stranger than you're told you should have.

They are too quick, yet make no move to attack, _defending so poorly with that pathetic broken branch that you could easily break their guard and run the spikes of your weapon through their chest_ \- but you have much more love for these children than you care to admit, even to yourself.

Your core, once tempered and hardened, has become molten hot with your unspeakable sins and the heat of their Soul, and your sorrow runs through the cracks in your armour.

 

They are too young: covered in scars and fresh wounds, dirt under their nails, old bandages plastered across their face, so small as they stare up at you with such dogged determination that you have to take a step back and compose yourself.

 

_Your guilt is weighing you down, old man, and it will only bury you further beneath the earth._

 

They are dodging so quickly that you assume they have spent most of their life avoiding the knuckles of clenched fists, and the soles of heavy shoes. They are too scraped, too tiny, too underfed, the collar of their knitted jumper hanging from a sharp shoulder, with limbs as gangly and thin as the bough in their hand. Their matted hair shifts and sticks to their soiled skin as they take another step to the side, watching you with an expression of weariness and sadness, and yet wearing a smile so bright that it outshines the power Barrier behind you. You falter for another second, just a fraction of a moment too long- a time in which they could have attacked and killed and dusted and ran free- yet they stand there, arms open wide and beckoning with a thousand unspoken words of mercy in that wonderful smile.

 

_You will fall, suffocating, with dirt in your lungs,_

 

_or live, with more blood on your hands._

 

You imagine a knife biting at your throat and even sharper laughter in your ears, and you blink back unbidden tears for you do not wish to fight any longer, but you must bear the burden for your people and the plans you have made.

 

You attack. They dodge.

You bark out harsh, demoralising words and utterly destroy any chance for them to defend as you back them into a corner.

You attack.

They fall.

 

You blink back the refracted stars of light shining through your tears.

 

You attack. They dodge.

You tell them that this must be done for the good of your people and their smile wavers a little, but they pick up the stick that has fallen from their broken and bleeding hands, and take up defence once more.

 

You attack, they fall, for they are far too small to be playing war.

 

Though you _still_ dared not speak their names, you had eventually realised that the foundations of your noose were not laid upon the souls of the children you killed, but the souls that you had first failed. The golden flowers brightened the room, and served as a constant reminder of what you had lost. The pain, the effort, the dust and sweat and tears that went into maintaining the garden kept you from the dark, dark thoughts and distracted you from their corpses resting in the crypts of the castle.

You created the blueprints yourself, and dug your own grave when the Prince and the Hope of Humans and Monsters died together. You lost your wife, your partner, your lover, your friend, your Queen, because you promised that mercy was no longer an option in order to avenge your children. You had shut yourself off from love for so long that you had grown a shell of steel and rock and hate, and hid those unspeakable feelings deep within those chambers.

You knew, whilst sweeping another attack towards the Last Child, that they were not to blame. You knew they did not deserve it, and you knew you were too far gone to dismantle the solid chains of death around your neck, so you persevere onwards.

 

They dodge.

They are slowing, staggering and tired, growing lethargic.

 

You blink back stars.

 

You attack. They dodge. They fall.

 

They fall they fall they fall they fall and they keep falling and you imagine that tiny, beaten body falling all alone into the shameful, never-ending hell that remains of your kingdom.

 

You attack. They fall.

 

The Barrier has fallen and your people are free, yet your Soul will forever be trapped deep, deep, deep beneath the soil, for you are less than dirt and not worthy of the Last Child’s smile.

 

You blink back stars.

 

You attack. They dodge, finally speaking up with a single resounding word that sends a whimper to your lips and tears over your lash line:

 

**_“MERCY!”_ **

 

And you listen.

 

Your weapon clatters to the floor with a _clang_ , and they begin to sob so loudly that your paternal instincts twist like a knife in your gut, and you have to physically distance yourself, staggering backwards and restraining your hands from clutching and soothing this poor weeping child. You drop heavily to your knees with your hands clutching at your maw. Their pathetic excuse for a weapon falls beside yours as they step closer, sniffling and wailing, and they grasp at you in a bastardisation of a hug. You gasp for air, and your kingdom is suffocating you with their expectations and you know- oh how you know- how they have suffered at the hands of Humans, but you cannot bring yourself the wring this tiny child’s neck whilst you have a chance. You do not deserve their mercy. You do not deserve this kindness and love for your hands are too stained with blood that not even time will wash away, and the guilt sinks deeper; lying just beneath the surface, barely restrained, writhing and itching and laden with bloodlust like the beast you are.

 

They are far too small. Their hands are shaking and their fingers are frail but they could still pull the beating heart from your chest if they so wished, yet they show their mercy by clinging to the scruff of your neck and collapsing into your arms.

 

The details of your throne room are washed out and hazy as if the light in your eyes has scorched away your ability to see, yet you feel at peace. The guilt is still there, just below the surface, and you will forever despair for the Souls in their chambers, but for now the light has granted you just a simple moment of quiet.

 

The Last Child’s Soul is white-hot, and far too powerful for you to comprehend, and the Barrier has crumbled beneath the prism of their light.

 

You blink away stars as you let yourself crumble under the weight of your sins, and allow yourself the mourning you had bottled up for fear of disappointing your people.

 

You wipe away the tear-tracked dirt from their cheeks and watch as your Queen holds onto their hand. The hole in her heart takes the shape of two children, and the Last Child manages to fill it with just enough light that it no longer feels quite so empty.

 

You are no longer hollow, nor sloshing with blood and bile, and the guilt weighing you down is a chain of fragmented shards of bone laced around your neck, yet the light of their smile fills you with mercy and love and the hope that one day it will be bearable.

 

You blink up at the stars.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write a piece about Asgore dealing with the suffering and hurt that went into obtaining the other Human Souls.  
> This is relatively short, but I really enjoyed writing in the themes of gemstones, fire, and light. I hope you enjoyed it too :3
> 
> Come and say hello over on [My Tumblr!](http://athenanuu.tumblr.com)


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